The Mistress

Chapter 4

 Chapter 4

“Welcome to Jerry’s RadioShack and we’re going to pleasure your ears with some delightful afternoon sounds.” I woke up groggily to check the watch and noticed the neon green light blared 4:50.

“Shit!” I flew out of my bed faster than the speed of light—obviously I’m saying this ironically cause as if I’m faster than the speed of light, I would need to go get that checked out—and flung clothes out of my closet left and right.

Once I found the dress I zipped it up, found the perfect pair of black lace high heels, and let my hair fall loose around my shoulders in big curls. Jittering with anticipation and anxiety, I drew my eyeliner—careful with the winged tip, don’t want to see too desperate—rose pink lipstick and concealer just in case.

5:30.

“Son of a bitch” I whispered under my breath before I grabbed my purse and pranced out the door, although I still had an hour I couldn’t forget the fact of Miami traffic and that would definitely put me back 20 minutes, so I needed to leave now if I even wanted the shred of a chance of getting there on time.

I didn’t know why my urge to get there on time was so important to me, usually when I had a dinner plan with one of the criminals I’d wait for them to either pick me up or show up 2 hours late. What? You’ve gotta keep them wanting more and if they call to ask where you are that’s to show that they’ll be an easier kill—the desperate guys are the needy guys—but as I sped down the Miami streets trying to scurry past traffic jams at every corner, I couldn’t help but want to impress Derek more than I’ve ever wanted to impress anyone else.

This better be my urge to bag this bastard or I’ll need to get this impending heart condition checked out by a doctor of some sort. As I pulled into the restaurant valet parking, I checked my watch to see that it was 6:29; using my last 30 seconds I threw the car keys at the guy and strolled into the restaurant. I saw Derek sitting in a corner booth away from most of the public eye.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

I sat down across from and opened a menu, trying to seem interested in anything but him. What? He did ignore me for 3 weeks.

“So, how are you doing?”

“Look, let’s cut the chit chat. I know what you are and I know what you do. The question is why did you call me back?” I watched his eyes slightly widen in fear and surprise. Instantly he cleared his throat and his face turned stone cold with no emotions shown.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I know you’re a con artist, The Millionaire Artist, to be exact. You’ve stolen over 20 million dollars in famous paintings and you haven’t been caught yet. You’ve managed to live your life the way you wanted and not get caught by the FBI yet, now tell me—“ I leaned forward to entice him with the cleavage that this dress thankfully gives.

“What’s your secret?” I watched his face morph through different stages of shock, surprise, confusion, and lastly lust.

Men.

“Well, it’s simple my dear Isabella—if you want to fool the FBI, you have to get inside the FBI’s head.”

“That simple huh?”

“That simple, now what about you? You seem to know a lot about me and I know nothing about you, so tell me something about yourself.”

“Well my name is Isabella Marina, I’m twenty-five years old, I live on 1116 Ocean Drive Miami Beach, and I definitely have the hots for a certain con-artist.” I watched his eyes darken slightly, like he was debating whether to jump me in front of all these people in the restaurant.